Standstill
by cataclysmically starry-minded
Summary: Harry's history with Malfoy has hardly been anything but tumultuous, but when Malfoy comes to him for help, Harry doesn't anticipate just how much things have changed and just how much they've stayed the same.


Standstill

I don't own Harry Potter, unfortunately

There are passing DH spoilers, but nothing huge. This story ignores the epilogue

Author's Notes at the end

_May 18__th__, 2005: 6:48 pm_

A sharp knock on the door startled Harry from his nap. Wrinkling his nose in confusion, Harry disentangled himself from the afghan that had fallen across his legs and rolled off the couch. The knocking continued, now louder, and Harry groaned as he got up and walked to the door, the knocks becoming a series of thumps. As he was coming down the hall, he could hear someone cursing outside. "Goddammit, Potter, would you _answer your fucking door_?"

_Well_, Harry thought, _at least now I know who's there_. _Maybe I should pretend I'm not __at home_ Malfoy's voice was becoming shriller, though, and the knocking was continuing—if Harry knew Malfoy, sooner or later he'd find a way in and make Harry's life distinctly more unpleasant. Massaging his temples, Harry opened the door, hoping he had enough pain relief potion to ward off his impending headache. "What is your problem?" he hissed as soon as Malfoy came into view. "What are you doing here?"

Malfoy scowled heavily, jerkily glancing over his shoulder as if he was afraid he was about to be cursed. "I was beginning to think you'd died in there—I've been knocking for five bleeding minutes. Let me in the fucking house." Malfoy pushed past Harry's shoulder, entering the front hall without giving Harry the chance to slam the door in his face. Settling for swinging the door shut against the rain, Harry pulled out his wand and advanced towards Malfoy, who, uncharacteristically, made no defensive movement.

"How'd you know I was going to be home?" Harry demanded. "And if you were so afraid that someone knew you were here, why were you banging on my door?" Malfoy looked puzzled for a second and Harry added, none too kindly, "Auror instinct. You looked over your shoulder when you came in. And you're more twitchy than normal."

"Very astute, Potter, but as good as your 'Auror instinct' might be, you've seemed to have forgotten that I'm a wizard and therefore have the charming ability to Disillusion myself and cast a _Silencio_. And as for knowing you were home—honestly, Potter, you lead a boring life. It's seven in the evening. Of course you'd be home."

Harry found this statement wholly unfair. "You know nothing about my life, Malfoy. Don't presume to know where I'd be or what I'd be doing."

"Come off it, Potter; you're not nearly as mysterious as you'd like to believe. But I don't really—"

"I can't believe you, Malfoy. You nearly took down my door to—what? Come in here and insult me? Are we about to go into puns and name-calling before it degenerates to hexes and curses and general mayhem?"

"_--h__ave time for this_."

"Time for what, exactly? May I remind you that—"

"Get off your soapbox, Potter. I'm in no mood for your holier-than-thou preaching. I—"

"Where do you get off—"

"—need—"

"—coming into my house—"

"—your—"

"—and pushing me—"

"_--h__elp_."

"—arou—what?" Harry, completely fazed at this sudden shift in conversation, abandoned his tirade and gaped openly at Malfoy.

"Your help, Potter, your help," Malfoy said impatiently, almost desperately.

"And why," Harry said, regaining his equilibrium, "did you come to me, then? I'm sure you know people with better connections and lesser morals that'd be happy to help you with whatever problem you have."

"You, however, are the only Auror I'm on speaking terms with."

"I wouldn't call it speaking terms per se, Malfoy," Harry huffed. "It's more like a reluctant—"

"Stop interrupting me with your witless attempts at verbal sparring," Malfoy snapped and Harry noticed that he'd begun to wring his hands. "This is important."

"It's important to you, maybe. Me, not so much. Why should I help you at all? Last time I checked, you still owed me from the last time I did something for you."

"Mulciber," Malfoy replied. "You'd get Mulciber. I know your department's been looking for him since the war ended."

"Bullshit, Malfoy. The last trace of Mulciber went cold years ago. Unless you've been hiding Mulciber, you have no chance of finding him, and if you have been protecting him, there's no way I can keep you out of Azkaban for it. Mulciber's wanted for twenty-five charges of first degree murder. You'd be charged as an accessory."

"I'm not helping Mulciber," Malfoy said, strangled. "But I do have a lead for you."

"Impossible. He's too careful to let something slip, especially around people like you. There's a reason no one's been able to find any trace of him."

"I have, and let me assure you, it was quite easy. After all, he left a detailed, signed note in my house after he kidnapped my daughter."

"_What_?" Harry exclaimed, surprise blossoming in his stomach.

"My daughter—he took my daughter," Malfoy said, and Harry finally recognized the shrill note in Malfoy's voice for what it was—desperation. "I came home and found my wife Stunned and my daughter missing. There was a note left in her crib." He shoved it over, and Harry took it gingerly from his hand, reading it.

_My dear Malfoy junior,_

_It has been a long time, hasn't it? I must admit that I've grown weary of watching you enjoy your stolen freedom as I hide. After all, we both served the Dark Lord honorably, did we not? __To think that you have betrayed him by accepting amnesty from the Muggle-adoring filth of the Ministry instead of taking Azkaban for our Cause—it sickens me. It is time, dear Draco, that someone teach you a lesson. And since no one has stepped up to the task, I find that it must fall __up__on me. Your daughter for you freedom, I think. She will make a good plaything. Until I tire of her, that is._

_Do be careful. I still have connections, no matter how long I've been away. I should hate to think what could happen to your child should I hear of an Auror investigation._

_Until death,_

_S. __Mul._

Harry met Malfoy's eyes after reading through the letter twice. "It's contrived," he said. "There's a chance that Mulciber didn't write this at all—I don't think he's this stupid, especially since it's signed."

"So you're just going to send me out with nothing? Maybe it is Mulciber—maybe it isn't. The one thing I know is that this person has performed a crime, and you've taken a job that's supposed to punish criminals. Are you not going to help me because you wouldn't catch the right person? Or because you hate me on principal? My daughter is _two months old_. Where's your hero complex now?" Malfoy's voice was rising to a shout, and judging from the way he kept clenching his hands, Harry knew that a wrong answer would likely end in a fistfight.

"I didn't say that," Harry said, studying the note again. "But I can't guarantee anything if I can't have a full team."

"No," Malfoy said adamantly. "No investigation. You read the letter. I won't risk it."

"I'll do as best as I can. The best way to start is to go to your house and question your wife. I'll also need to see where you found the note, where your wife was stunned."

"With logic like that, it's no wonder you became an Auror," Malfoy said, his sarcasm falling short. "You'll do it, then?"

"This isn't a personal favor, Malfoy. I became an Auror for a reason."

"Just make sure you don't get caught. If she dies because you couldn't keep your stupid trainer hidden under your robes—"

"I'm the one who passed Stealth and Tracking, Malfoy. As long as no one knows you've come here, they're not going to find out."

"Forgive me if I don't quite believe you; your track record speaks for itself, you know. Can we get going now? So you can—I don't know—maybe start your investigation?"

"Lead the way," Harry said scornfully. "We can Apparate from the front step without anyone seeing. _Accio_ Invisibility Cloak!"

_June 10, 2004: 10 pm_

Harry hated these parties. It was all fine for Hermione and Ron who had built-in dates with each other, but ever since his split with Ginny, Harry had no one to go to these things with. "I'm not interested," he said firmly to the woman who was chewing on his ear in a horrid attempt to be sensuous. "Really, please stop." He physically separated himself from the woman, who pouted and said something derogatory (but fortunately too slurred to be entirely comprehensible) before stalking off, leaving Harry with his gin and tonic…and a familiar, grating laugh.

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry said, not bothering to turn around.

"God, Potter," Malfoy said, still chuckling. "You're so hard up for me, you can identify me by laugh alone."

"I do not," Harry stressed, "find you attractive at all. Your voice has the effect of a cold shower."

"Blatant lies, Potter. From what the papers are saying, you'd shag anything with a cock." Malfoy was laughing again, deprecatingly, and Harry whirled around, seeing red.

"You'd better shut the fuck up," Harry warned through gritted teeth. "I still know how to use _Sectumsempra_ and I'm not afraid to do it. Everyone knows you deserve it."

"Oh, calm down, for Merlin's sake. It's just a bit of fun," Malfoy scoffed, and Harry could tell by the slight glassiness of his eyes that Malfoy was halfway on his way to a horrible hangover the next morning.

"Don't tell me what to do." Harry warned, his face twisting angrily. "What are you doing here, anyway? I thought acquitted Death Eaters weren't invited to these things."

Malfoy yawned in the most obvious, obnoxious way possible. "After six years, you'd think that you'd be able to come up with better comebacks. And I have the invitation with me, if you'd like to see. Thankfully not everyone's as prejudiced as you are." Harry took a second to admire how Malfoy, even when more-than-buzzed, was able to stay relatively articulate.

"I am not prejudiced!" Harry said hotly. "At—at least I didn't come alone!"

"Pansy was busy, Blaise is in Milan, and my fiancé isn't feeling well. And as far as I can tell, you _are_ alone. That's what we call it when you sit at a table with only a glass of alcohol for company."

"I came with Ron and Hermione!" Harry said defensively, and Malfoy immediately broke into laughter again.

"I'd rather be alone than be a third wheel—it's hardly something to brag about Potter. What happened? You run out of gay men to fuck around with?"

"That is none of your business," Harry bit out.

"Technically, it became my business as soon as the story hit the society pages of the _Prophet_."

"That doesn't count." Harry had been mortified when the _Daily Prophet_ had managed to get photos of him tongue deep in the mouth of another man. It was hardly the way he'd wanted to break the news to Ron and Hermione, and he'd never intended Ginny to know at all.

"Then why don't we make it my business?" Malfoy asked, and the insinuation was evident. Harry was so taken off balance, he literally stepped back.

"What—are you insane?" he sputtered. How had the conversation changed to this all of sudden? "We _hate_ each other, Malfoy! And don't you have a fiancé? That French bint?"

"It's a business arrangement, Ingrid and I," Malfoy said.

"And I'm what? The last fuck before you get married? We hate each other!" Harry repeated.

"We don't have to like each other," said Malfoy, "to fuck." His words caused Harry's stomach to contract hollowly, and the way Malfoy's slightly-drunken gaze sharpened made Harry's cock jump eagerly.

_May 18, 2005__: 7:17pm_

Malfoy's house was much smaller than Harry would've guessed at first thought, and the lack of adequate magical protection around the grounds explained how the kidnapper had managed to enter so easily. "You need to look into strengthening your wards," Harry informed Malfoy distractedly as he wordlessly checked for defects in the magic around the house. Harry heard nothing from Malfoy besides a slight affirmative noise, as Malfoy's wife had appeared in the doorway and was giving Draco one of the nastiest looks Harry had ever seen.

As soon as Harry was sure that he wouldn't be able to be seen by anyone who wasn't within the wards, he removed his Invisibility Cloak. "Mrs. Malfoy," Harry greeted with a measure of politeness as soon as they'd reached the door. "I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances—"

"Save it, Potter," she said shortly. "Why'd you bring _him_, Draco?" She said Malfoy's name as if it was as vile to her tongue as Bubotuber pus.

"Leave it, Ingrid," Malfoy snapped. "Come in, Potter; it's time to prove your usefulness." Ingrid made a disgusted noise that reminded Harry very much of Fleur the time that Victoire had accidentally turned her hair bright green.

"Mrs. Malfoy, I need to know exactly what happened," Harry said.

"One moment I was standing in the bathroom, washing my hands, the next moment Draco was reviving me. That is all." Ingrid still looked extremely incensed, and her accent was becoming more pronounced with each sentence.

"And that's all you remember?" pressed Harry. "Are you sure? Even a trivial thing could help me find your daughter." Beside him, Malfoy flinched, and Ingrid said something nasty-sounding in French before laughing humorlessly. Harry looked questioningly at Malfoy.

"It's nothing, Potter. Is this all your good for? It makes me wonder why Aurors go through three years of schooling; it seems as though your job could be done by a third-year."

"Quiet, Malfoy," Harry said, "or I'll follow protocol and call in an entire Auror division to investigate." Harry regretted saying this as soon as Malfoy's mouth tightened angrily, and Harry managed to ward off the inevitable, angry reply by turning back to Ingrid. "Could you possibly remove the memory so I could view it in a Pensieve, Mrs. Malfoy?"

"If I must," Ingrid said coldly, and Harry pulled a quill from his pocket and transfigured it into a wide bowl. Ingrid pressed her wand to her temple and pulled a delicate, silvery thought away from her head, depositing it in Harry's bowl.

"I'm watching it, too," Malfoy declared, and even though he wanted to refuse, Harry couldn't really find anything wrong with it; after all, Malfoy might be able to identify the suspect. Harry held the bowl so Malfoy could have access to it, and Ingrid, apparently not interested, left the room. Malfoy and Harry simultaneously touched the thought and Harry felt the familiar sensation of falling into the cool mist of a Pensieve.

It appeared that Ingrid had only removed the necessary part of her memory. Harry and Draco had been standing beside Ingrid, next to the bathtub, for only a couple of seconds when a dark-robed, masked man slid into the doorway and silently Stunned Ingrid. As soon as she lost consciousness, Harry and Draco were thrown out of the memory.

"Well, that helped," Malfoy sneered. "Brilliant idea, Potter."

"We know that they suspect is shorter than you," Harry said pragmatically. "So that rules out Mulciber, because he's easily ten centimeters taller than me."

"He could have been using a disguising charm," Malfoy started.

"Not likely," interrupted Harry. "He had already disguised himself well enough. If Mulciber had the gall to sign the note, he wouldn't have come into the house with a mask on. It was probably a lesser known Death Eater. Anyone you'd know off the top of your head who'd be holding a particular grudge?"

"It's hard to say," Malfoy conceded, scowling deeply. "It could be any one of them."

"Show me to your daughter's room," Harry said. "But I'd like to investigate it alone, if you don't mind. It's hard to concentrate when you keep criticizing what I'm doing.

"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy said angrily. "It's the second door on the right when you get upstairs." Malfoy stalked off, following the route Ingrid had taken, and Harry went up the stairs.

It took Harry just below forty-five minutes to go through the entire upstairs looking for clues. After utilizing all of the Auror techniques he knew to survey the crime scene and the hallway, he'd come up with nothing more than a small clout of dirt and a several dark hairs that likely belonged to Malfoy's wife. While he was examining the dirt and trying to decide if it had been tracked in by the Death Eater or by one of the Malfoys, he heard the swell of shouts below him. He stopped to listen but could make out nothing more than a steady mumble of angry voices.

As Harry started down the stairs to give Malfoy the grim news, he saw Ingrid sweep out of the house, snarling "I'm not doing this anymore," before slamming the door. Malfoy was standing in the foyer, his paler-than-usual face the only indication that anything had happened. He whipped around as the stair creaked under Harry's weight.

"_Well?_" he demanded.

"I didn't find anything," Harry said, neutrally cautious. "Whoever he was, he's smart—he knew how to cover his tracks. With such a small lead, it's going to be hard to find him."

"Of course that's what you'd say," Malfoy snapped. "I guess it's too much to ask to bring you here and expect you to do your job."

"There's nothing else I can do here," Harry said, breathing slowly to keep the anger at bay. "I'll keep looking into it, but unless something big turns up in my department, there's not a very good chance—"

"I don't want to hear it," Malfoy said, and Harry wished that he would go back to being angry, because this defeated Malfoy was making his stomach knot. "Just get out. I don't want to hear about how the next time I see my daughter, she'll likely be dead. Get out."

"Malfoy—your wife—"

"It doesn't matter, and it's none of your business. Would you please just get the fuck out of my house?"

Harry nodded and walked towards the front door, turning the knob. He gave Malfoy one last look over his shoulder and said, "I'll let you know…if I find anything." Malfoy didn't say anything as he face screwed up, and Harry left because the last time he'd seen Malfoy cry didn't compare at all to this.

_June 10, 2004: 10:07 pm_

They had barely managed to Apparate into the hallway outside Harry's bedroom before Harry hauled Malfoy against the wall, his tongue tangling with Malfoy's. Logically, he knew this was a bad idea, but between logic and having Malfoy's teeth nibbling at his lower lip, he'd choose the latter every time.

"I knew it," Malfoy panted as Harry's mouth left his to follow the line of his chin. "How long have you been waiting for the chance to let me fuck you?"

Harry bit down on the curve of Malfoy's jaw and sucked lightly. "Are you sure it's not the opposite, Malfoy?" Harry said roughly. "I hate to tell you, but there's no way you'll be doing anything besides lying on your back, begging me to shove my cock up your arse."

"Dirtier than I'd expect from you, Potter." Harry shoved his leg between Malfoy's, his thigh rubbing against Malfoy's erection, and Malfoy's words distorted around his moan. "F-fuck, Potter," he gasped.

"Again?" Harry asked, and Malfoy answered by pressing his hips upwards.

"It's not enough to let me—ah, fuck—be your bottom, Potter."

"Somehow, I think that'll change soon enough," Harry assured Malfoy, before he grabbed Malfoy's hips and brought their groins together in a highly indecent, highly pleasurable grind. Malfoy's hands stopped scrabbling over Harry's back to worm themselves inside of Harry's robe. Malfoy bucked more aggressively, and as Harry moaned, Malfoy managed to push Harry's robes to the floor. They pooled around Harry's ankles, and Malfoy began to work on the buttons of Harry's shirt.

"Bedroom," Harry gasped as Malfoy's fingers grazed his nipple. "Now." Malfoy's eyes were glittering in the half-light, his pupils oddly dilated.

"I think not, Potter," Malfoy said. "Let's keep it on neutral territory, hmm?" Harry was about to protest about no matter where in the house they were, it was still _Harry's house_ when Malfoy twisted his nipple while simultaneously sucking on a spot just above Harry's collarbone.

"Here's fine," Harry acquiesced breathlessly.

"Good," Malfoy smirked and shoved Harry so hard he lost his balance and fell on the floor.

"Ow!" Harry protested. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Malfoy, who had fallen to his knees, straddled Harry's hips and pressed Harry's shoulders back so Harry was lying on the floor with Malfoy above him.

"Stop your whining, Potter," Malfoy warned softly. "You wouldn't want me to leave you here, would you?"

"Empty threat, Malfoy," Harry said, pulling Malfoy down so he could kiss him properly. Malfoy's weight was unsettling and arousing at the same time, and Harry arched into him, moaning. Malfoy's tongue was rough, and his teeth were sharp, and kissing him was like some sort of fight for dominance. Vaguely, Harry noted that Malfoy tasted sharp under the vodka, somewhat bitter. As Malfoy practically sucked Harry's lower lip into his mouth, Harry knew that there were entirely too many clothes between him and Malfoy's skin and immediately tried to remedy this. Malfoy caught on as soon as Harry had managed to rip off the top-most button of Malfoy's shirt, and joined him in the awkward motions of divesting each other's clothes, all the while trying to keep Harry below him.

"It's not working, you know," Harry said lightly, lifting his hips so Malfoy could slide his pants off. Malfoy didn't respond for a second, probably because Harry had maneuvered his way inside Malfoy's underwear, his loosely-curled fingers running ever-so-lightly up and down Malfoy's cock.

"What's not—oh, God, have you ever even wanked someone off before? Because you seem to be missing a few key points," Malfoy pointed out in a failed attempt to be haughty; his gasps and the way he kept pressing into Harry's hand caused his words to become nothing more than useless noise.

"You're not distracting me," Harry said, and he tightened his grip around Malfoy's erection, pulling in rough, jerky strokes.

"_Unh_," moaned Malfoy. "Distracting you from what—don't _stop_, Potter!"

"From the fact that you're going to bottom tonight." Harry smiled wickedly, using a technique he'd learned in Auror training to gain leverage on Malfoy and flip him over.

"What? Potter, no—" Malfoy tried to struggle, but Harry had five years' worth of training above him and was easily able to keep Malfoy on the floor. Harry used his left hand to awkwardly tug Malfoy's underwear down and then gave Malfoy's mouth a full-tongued goodbye before sliding down Malfoy's body, one hand firmly pressing Malfoy's hip to the ground.

"Just don't complain to me about the floor being uncomfortable. It was your idea, after all," Harry warned before swallowing Malfoy's cock. Harry heard the thunk as Malfoy's head hit the floor, and Malfoy immediately stopped struggling to gain the upper-hand and instead weaved his hands into Harry's hair. Harry sucked hard, and Malfoy made a keening noise that flew down Harry's spine to his cock. Wrapping a hand around the root of Malfoy's dick, Harry began to bob his head, the unfamiliar weight of Malfoy's cock on Harry's tongue made all the better because this was _Malfoy_ and Harry had wanted to do this for longer than he cared to admit.

When the salty taste of Malfoy's precome strengthened in Harry's mouth, Harry did something inherently evil—he stopped tracing the vein on the underside of Malfoy's dick and raised his head so he could look Malfoy square in the eye. "God, Potter, you fucking cocktease," Malfoy groaned desperately. "Would you just finish it off?"

"Only if you let me fuck you," Harry said.

"N-oh, God, please, don't you dare st—" Harry's hand paused on Malfoy's erection.

"I could do this all night, Malfoy. Bring you right to the edge and not letting you go over it."

"_Potter_."

"Yes or no?"

"Fine! Fuck me if you absolutely must! Just let me fucking come already!"

"Good," Harry scrabbled for his wand and as soon as he'd located it, three feet from Malfoy's hip, he Summoned the lube he'd left on his bedside table.

"Elegant use of the Summoning charm, Potter," Malfoy mocked, hissing as Harry slapped his hand away from his erection.

"No whining; you were the one who didn't want the bed." Harry slid his fingers along the crack of Malfoy's arse, locating the knot of Malfoy's arsehole and pushing. He used one finger at first, then two, spreading his fingers, slightly. He knew he was skimping on preparing Malfoy, but Harry wanted to fuck him _now_. Pulling his fingers out of Malfoy's arse, Harry slicked the leftover lube on his own cock, then, lining himself up, pushed into Malfoy.

He heard Malfoy inhale sharply at the sudden pain of intrusion, but Harry didn't care; he'd wanted this for so long, to be inside Malfoy, and to make him hurt too, that nothing mattered besides the way Malfoy felt around him. Harry didn't wait long before he began moving, too far gone to make this last very long at all. Malfoy was still making pained little gasps, and Harry pulled Malfoy's hips up so he could drive into Malfoy at a different angle. This seemed to do it; Malfoy stopped grunting in pain and started making little moaning noises.

"Touch yourself, Malfoy," Harry said, because he knew he was close. The sight of Malfoy's hand flying over his own cock did it, and Harry was coming and Malfoy was coming and arching into Harry and Harry wanted to know why he had waited _so fucking long_ to do this.

_May 25__, 2005: 4__:28pm_

Harry looked over the report he had been given by Lola Mills, an Auror who worked in the Investigative Office, analyzing various crime evidence. She hadn't found anything conclusive, which Harry had been suspecting, given the woeful lack of evidence he'd been able to procure at Malfoy's house; Mills had only been able to confirm that the dirt clod had nothing that could identify a location and that the hair that Harry had found definitely came from Malfoy's wife. It had been a week, and the only thing that he could tell Malfoy was that the trouble he'd gone to in finding Malfoy's wife for a hair sample (why she'd been so hard to locate, Harry still hadn't figured out), he'd come to the predictable answer that, yes, Ingrid's hair matched the sample Harry had gotten from the baby's room. Harry was trying to figure out just how he was going to break the news to Malfoy and avoid being hexed that he didn't notice Pansy Parkinson had entered his cubicle until he felt her cast a Silencing spell around his office.

"You'd better hope that no one noticed that," Harry commented crossly as soon as he'd figured out who was standing in front of him.

"Honestly, Potter," Pansy huffed. "They're just going to think that I want to insult you with no one overhearing."

"What do you want?" Harry asked, wondering bitterly why God had decided that Harry deserved to be ambushed by two volatile Slytherins in the span of a week.

"Like you don't know. Draco sent me." The way she said it reminded Harry uncomfortably of hit-men, and he was temporarily glad that Goyle had apparently been too busy to stop by Harry's desk.

"I haven't found anything," Harry said tiredly.

"You're joking," Pansy half-shrieked; Harry hoped her Silencing spell was up to the challenge. "You have got to be joking. Nobody investigates a crime for a week and finds nothing."

"You might as well stop pushing. It's the truth. I have nothing to tell you."

"So you're sending me back to Draco with no news? Do you even comprehend what he's going to do to me when he finds out that you're completely useless? You'll be an accessory to murder."Pansy's cheeks were reddening, from anger or worry Harry couldn't tell.

"I won't be only an accomplice if you keep bothering me about it. Go away."

Pansy narrowed her eyes, and stepped closer so she was towering over Harry. "Don't be so blasé, Potter. If I find out that you haven't done anything about this because you're still harboring a stupid, childish grudge towards Draco, I will hex your balls off and choke you with them."

"It's not—look, I've been doing the best I can," said Harry angrily. "I'd like to see you try to produce results with what I found in that room. And it's not like I'm getting any help, either. I can't believe you would think that I'd let a baby suffer because I don't like her father."

Pansy stared at him for a second, wrinkling her nose in a way that made her look more like a pug than usual. "Fine. Just _find something_, Potter." She stalked away, her heels making authoritative noises on the floor, which unfortunately caused Ron to look up from his paperwork and peek around the wall separating his cubicle from Harry's. Harry hastily dispelled the Silencing spell, hoping Ron hadn't noticed.

"What did Parkinson want?" Ron asked.

"Nothing," Harry said quickly. Ron gave him a disbelieving glance, but thankfully Ron didn't press the subject; Harry was crap at making up lies when put on the spot. He still winced when he remembered the whole Vernon Dudley incident when the Snatchers had caught him in the last year of the war. It was one thing he'd struggled greatly with in Auror-training.

"What's she doing in the Ministry anyway?"

"I think she works as a liaison between the Gringotts goblins and the financial departments here," Harry answered.

"Is that so?" Ron mused. "Well, hopefully she'll give Griphook a good kick up the arse, eh? The last time I saw her she was with Malfoy. Speaking of Malfoy, have you heard the good news? No, of course you haven't. You don't read the _Prophet's_ society pages, do you?"

"You wouldn't either if half of it was lies about you," Harry grumbled.

Ron withdrew back into his cubicle but popped out after a few seconds of rustling, brandishing a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. "Look," he crowed. Harry took the paper from him and immediately found the article Ron was talking about thanks to the glaring headline. "Smartest decision she'll probably ever make," Ron said. "Divorcing Malfoy after only seven months together—hah! She probably discovered that no amount of Galleons could make up for living with the biggest prat in the UK."

Harry didn't respond to Ron's gleeful statement, choosing instead to re-read the article. _Why_ was Ingrid divorcing Malfoy so quickly after their daughter had been kidnapped? More to the point, why didn't she care at all about finding her daughter, anyway? It had taken Malfoy a full day and a half to find where she'd run to after leaving the house so dramatically when Harry had been investigating. Surely, _surely_ she hadn't been involved? Because, honestly, she couldn't be so stupid as to publicly announce her animosity towards Malfoy and be involved in the disappearance of their daughter at the same time. _Unless,_ Harry thought to himself, _unless she kidnapped their daughter to get her away from Malfoy_.

"Isn't it great?" Ron said uncertainly when Harry didn't say anything.

"What? Oh, yeah, he completely deserves it," Harry said distractedly. "Look, Ron, there's something I have to finish right now."

Ron groaned. "Me too. If I don't have this report on Robards' desk by five, he'll skin me alive."

_June 11, 2004: 8:15am_

Harry didn't have to roll over to know Malfoy was gone; he knew as soon as Malfoy had stumbled into Harry's bedroom and stole half the covers that he wouldn't stay long enough for Harry to acknowledge his presence in the morning. Harry just didn't understand why he hadn't been prepared for the gnawing, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thought of how he'd allowed it to get this far.

When Malfoy had approached him in that party, Harry had told himself that doing anything besides arguing was a bad idea. Harry had told himself not to respond to the innuendo. Harry was good at lying to himself, too, because he'd wanted to have Malfoy for so long that it would have been nearly impossible to deny himself anything Malfoy was willing to give.

And the worst part was that Harry hated himself for it. He wanted his fantasy back, the one where he would marry Ginny and finally become an official member of her family. He'd been living an extraordinary life for so long he wished he could hold on to that last bit of normalcy. Instead, he'd forced Ginny to see through the illusion they were both striving to create about their relationship. He had thrown himself into his work, ignoring how Ron and Hermione kept pressing him for answers, and one night, when he'd fallen so far into self-pity that he'd drunk himself nearly to liver-failure, he'd made a pass at a slight, blonde man that had been loitering around the bar.Harry never knew who had been the first man he kissed, or whether this man had only responded to Harry's sub-par pick-up lines because he had propositioned by _Harry Potter_. Ironically, all the papers knew Harry's mystery man by face from the picture that had leaked onto the front page of the _Daily Prophet._ Ron and Hermione were slightly uncomfortable around him now, Ginny had stopped talking to him, and Harry wished, for the first, fleeting time, that he'd stayed dead when Voldemort had aimed his Avada Kedavra

If Harry had to pinpoint the exact time where everything had gone to Hell and back, he wouldn't have very much trouble. When the dust had settled from Voldemort's death and the remaining Aurors had begun to sort through the aftermath, most every Death Eater, barring special exceptions, went to Azkaban for a length of time. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, their home having been a haven for the Dark Lord for the greater part of a year, had not escaped prison-time. Their son, on the other hand, _had _managed to avoid heavy punishment and instead was placed on a year-long probationary period, effective only if he stayed under the guardianship of his closest relative not behind bars. If Andromeda Tonks hadn't been Malfoy's aunt and Teddy's grandmother, this wouldn't have been a problem. Unfortunately, life didn't work that way for Harry.

After he had tricked Voldemort into killing himself, Harry entered the Auror division under specific stipulations. Auror training, which ordinarily took only three years, was extended to four for Harry's case, seeing as he'd missed his seventh year at Hogwarts to camp on most of Britain's countryside. Between the extensive studies, taxing physical training, and exhaustive mental evaluation, Harry had taken his limited time off to visit his godson. Andromeda, who had wilted from the loss of her family, always welcomed the company, as long as it took her grandson off her hands for a measure of time. Harry didn't think she got much of a break between the newborn and her stubborn, ex-Death Eater of a nephew, and every time he visited, he noticed that the circles under her eyes had deepened.

Teddy wasn't anything like how Harry had imagined a baby. Mostly, he cried until his face was so red, it was almost purple, and was only partially consoled by bottles or diaper-changes. Harry often didn't know what to do and sat awkwardly in Andromeda's sitting room, holding his wriggling, upset godson while making the most ludicrous shushing noises.

At the time, the only good part about his visits with Teddy was that Malfoy stayed away. Even the rare times when Harry stayed the night, Malfoy would turn around, pink-faced, uncharacteristically silent whenever he saw Harry. Harry couldn't figure out if this was gratitude that Harry had testified in his family's defense or embarrassment that Harry had saved his life twice during the last battle, but it became a nice change to not have to be on guard whenever Malfoy was around.

Harry had often wondered when Malfoy would start talking to him again, because the silence, although appreciated, had started to become unnerving. Harry concocted plans to antagonize Malfoy so much that he would have no choice but to break his vow of silence. He plotted everything from flobberworm mucous in Malfoy's morning tea to ordering Kreacher to serve as Malfoy's bed-warmer, but in the end, Harry didn't have to put anything in motion.

It was early morning, on a Sunday, and Harry had reluctantly stayed the night at Andromeda's; apparently, she had a need to run errands and had no one to look after Teddy. Harry wanted to protest—this was the first time he'd be alone with Teddy and Harry was dreading the crying—but, honestly, she had no choice. Who would leave in infant in Malfoy's hands, after all? Harry had just brushed his teeth, when he heard the _wheh_ing noises that were a prelude to a very loud, very wet protest from Teddy. Harry stumbled out of the bathroom and put on a shirt as the whimpers became full out screams. Harry had just appeared in the doorway to the nursery when he saw the strangest sight since Xenophilius Lovegood's house.

"What do you want, brat?" Malfoy said, holding Teddy at arm's length away. He looked every bit as awkward as Harry felt around the baby, and if Malfoy hadn't put Teddy down to pull out his wand, Harry might've stood there and stared at Malfoy's bare stomach until he was noticed.

"Malfoy—_what are you doing_?" Harry cried, as Malfoy aimed the wand towards the crib.

"Christ!" Malfoy exclaimed as he nearly fell over his own feet. "Would you warn a person before you shriek? Honestly, Potter." Malfoy's hand flew halfway to his mouth as soon as he realized that he'd actually said something to Harry.

"Well, maybe if you hadn't been pointing your wand at him!"

"I wasn't going to do anything," Malfoy said hastily. "It was just—there's this charm—"

"What, _Silencio_?" Harry asked sarcastically.

"_No. _It was just…a lullaby charm, if you must know," Malfoy finished defiantly. "It doesn't matter now, anyways. You're here—you take care of him." Malfoy stalked out of the room, as Harry stared stupidly after him.

Things changed after that. Malfoy was no longer afraid to speak to Harry, and Harry couldn't seem to get the image of Malfoy's bare stomach out of his head. Every time he saw Malfoy, he'd inevitably picture the pale contours of Malfoy's skin and the trail of fine, nearly invisible hair that had led into Malfoy's pajama bottoms. Harry tried to tell himself that Malfoy was a bloke, and a git to boot, but it didn't stop Harry from visiting Andromeda's more frequently during that year, hoping to glance Malfoy in passing.

Andromeda, hardly stupid, pulled him aside one day. All haughtiness gone from her voice, she told him seriously, "Don't mess around with Narcissa's son. He's as bad as his father—he'll jerk you around and around till he's satisfied and you're miserable." Harry believed her words, but they didn't help him at all. He still thought about Malfoy all the time, his situation parodying the sick obsession he'd had with Malfoy during their sixth year. He always thought of Malfoy and his pink mouth and his flat stomach whenever his hand would stray downwards. He broke up with Ginny over it, over this guilt and uncertainty, and even as the years passed, and he began to think less of Malfoy, something would inevitably happen. Malfoy would pop up again, somewhere within the Ministry, maybe, or at a party, and Harry would begin the whole cycle over again, wishing he could find the courage to perform a quick, sweeping _Obliviate_. And when he failed to convince himself to do that, he would sit and wonder why Malfoy and his awkwardness and his stomach and his sharp tongue made Harry ache with indescribable want.

_May 27, 2005: 8:13 pm_

Nine days after Malfoy had so frantically pounded Harry's door down, Harry found himself in a small hamlet three hours outside London, waiting patiently as Ingrid Malfoy-soon-to-be-Beauvais-again to answer her door. Harry had finally decided to question Malfoy's almost-ex again after much deliberation. Anyways, it was the only lead he had, and if he found out later that it could have let him to a definite location for Malfoy's daughter, the hindsight might kill him. Literally—Malfoy was good with his curses.

After two minutes, Ingrid opened the door and looked at Harry as if he were a small, distasteful rodent. She made a nasally sound of disgust and looked at him beadily. "What do you want? How did you find me?"

Harry shrugged. "Malfoy remembered that you had property out here. I asked around the village and they said they'd seen you around."

"It does not matter," Ingrid scoffed. "I have nothing to say to you."

"I won't take much of your time," Harry promised. "I just have a few more questions."

"And I 'ave no inclination to answer them."

"You'd rather I take you down to headquarters?" Harry questioned mildly.

"You wouldn't," Ingrid said, but she opened the door and stepped backwards so Harry could enter.

"Thank you." Ingrid walked a few paces into the hall, and Harry shut the door behind him. She stopped abruptly next to a portrait of a man who was gazing at Harry with an indiscernible expression.

"You are not worth a chair," Ingrid said loftily. "Ask me here and I shall answer. And make it fast."

"Okay," Harry said. "Er—has Malfoy ever done anything to you that made you fear your life?"

"He doesn't 'ave the courage or the ability."

"Has he ever made threatening gestures towards your daughter?"

"No. 'E adores 'er. It is sickening." Ingrid made a face.

"Is there any specific reason to why you suddenly decided to divorce your husband?"

""E is repulsive. We only married because 'e 'ad money and I 'ad pure blood. I didn't want to live like zat any longer."

Harry looked at her long and hard. "Did you have anything to do with the disappearance of his daughter?"

Ingrid looked bored. "No. If zat is all, I'm afraid I am rather busy."

"Er—"

"Excellent. You may show yourself to ze door, yes?" She turned away and walked down the hall, leaving Harry standing foolishly alone next to the portrait, wishing that he'd had a larger, more impressive list of questions.

Harry had left, but using a little technique that mostly involved Apparating out of the village so he could walk back in under his Invisibility Cloak, he ended up back where he had started: right outside Ingrid's front door. This time, however, Harry wasn't going to knock; obviously, that strategy yielded no answers, as Ingrid obviously wanted to wrap Harry's intestines around his neck. He ducked outside her window, making sure his trainers made no sound on the dry grass, and looked into the empty room. The fireplace was still smoldering but Ingrid had apparently retired upstairs.

Twenty minutes later, Harry was about to leave for good and declare that his instincts had finally gone loopy. Of course, just as Harry was leaving the premises, he heard the _crack_ of Apparition and turned around to see a cloaked figure ring Ingrid's doorbell. Ingrid opened the door and let the stranger in with no words, and Harry returned to his vigil outside her window. Thankfully, Ingrid actually led the man into the sitting room, and Harry started as the figure turned and he saw that Ingrid had allowed a masked Death Eater into her house without any hesitation. They were arguing furiously, but Harry couldn't do anything that would allow him to hear them without alerting them to his presence. All of a sudden, they Disapparated together, and Harry was extremely glad that Ingrid hadn't noticed that Harry'd put a tracking spell on her when she'd turned away from him—thankfully, Harry's instincts hadn't checked into St. Mungo's psych ward just yet. He was going to need them if Ingrid had gone where he thought she'd gone.

Harry followed the spell to a remote house that was partially hidden within the trees. He almost wanted to roll his eyes at how clichéd the whole situation was—estranged wife helping Death Eaters to kill a child in a remote area—until he realized that he was alone, in a remote area, ten feet away from a house that was likely full of Death Eaters. He had no definite way of reaching Robards or even Ron for back up, but Harry knew that the tracing spell would begin to weaken and without it, it would be difficult to find the house again, if not impossible, as someone had been smart enough to place an Unplottable ward on it. Harry scowled and spent a few minutes trying to decide what to do.

Finally, after some deliberation, Harry took careful aim at a tree branch, and spelled it to fall, hoping that no one would catch the quick dash of white light. Sure enough, a stocky man came charging out of the front door to investigate, and Harry, not wishing to take the same chance now that everyone was on their guard, hoisted the branch he had just broken, snuck up behind the blustering Death Eater and knocked him over the head. Harry caught the man before he could fall, and, staggering under the weight, slowly let him down onto the ground. Harry had a little Polyjuice potion within his little rucksack that Aurors were required to take around, but he'd used most of it on a raid and hadn't bothered to replenish it; with what he had, it was doubtful he'd remain disguised for more than twenty minutes. Harry grimaced at the odds but pulled out a number of thick, brown hairs, pulled out the potion, and took both of them down in one straight shot. Two painful minutes later, Harry was trudging towards the door, unsteady in the slightly bigger body. He entered the house and followed the door to a well-lit room, and his stomach dropped as his eyes found the ring-leader of this covert Death Eater operation. It wasn't Mulciber, of course, but Rookwood, with his deranged, black eyes staring at his tiny group of underground Death Eaters. The room was dirty and the Death Eaters were standing in a semi-circle with Rookwood in front of them, almost in a grotesque parody of a symphony waiting for their conductor to give them instructions

"Well?" he demanded as Harry came into view. "What was it, then?"

"A branch," Harry grunted, sidling into place beside a small, peaky looking young man. If Rookwood noticed anything different about his Death Eater cum Harry, he didn't give any notice to it.

"Are you sure? No one there?" Rookwood looked highly menacing as he stroked the sleek black wood of his wand.

"Yes."

"There's no one out there, Rookwood," Ingrid snapped suddenly from the corner. "'Ave you 'eard what I said, or not? Potter's suspicious."

"Oh, come on," scoffed a nondescript man from Harry's right. "Potter's completely oblivious. He's just running in circles."

"And what if 'e isn't?" Ingrid demanded. "You said in zat letter zat you'd kill the girl if Aurors got involved. Potter's been snooping around for nine days. It's time. I want to send Draco her dismembered body." Harry shivered to himself as the Death Eaters burst into jeering laughter.

"The Malfoy brat did something wrong when he messed around with you," said the same Death Eater as before. Ingrid just glared at him.

"Very well, I guess you're right," said Rookwood tonelessly. "Though I do wish I'd be there to see the look on Malfoy's eyes when he finds his daughter's head in the post. Someone get him."

"I'll do it," Harry volunteered, almost too quickly, and Rookwood gave him a suspicious glance before inclining his head slightly. Harry backed into the hall and as soon as he'd gone from view, he broke into a brisk stride. He'd made his decision—there was no way he'd be able to fight off eight Death Eaters and Rookwood at the same time. He was going for Malfoy's daughter. It took him three doors to find the right one, and when he walked in, he saw her on the bad, making desperate whimpers, something black trickling out of both her ears. Hoping desperately that she was safe to move, he picked her up and Disapparated to St. Mungo's.

Two hours later, after a briefing from a Healer and a very terse telling-off from Robards, Harry was approaching a pale, shaking Malfoy in the waiting room of St. Mungo's. "Well!" Draco demanded. "Don't just stand there like a useless lump! Tell me_ she's okay_."

Harry wanted so much to look into Malfoy's silver eyes and lie to him, tell him that his daughter came out of this just as she'd been in the beginning—a normal two-month old. Malfoy needed that news, that good news to offset the nine days of hell he'd been through, but Harry couldn't give it to him. "She's lost a lot of weight, Malfoy, and one of her arms was badly broken." Malfoy buried his head in his hands for few seconds, but when he looked up, his eyes were still dry, as if he'd hardened himself while hidden within his fingers.

"Is that all?" Malfoy said softly.

"No," Harry said. "The Death Eaters—well, they used some sort of spell—the Healers don't know what it was yet—and…she's deaf." Malfoy started trembling severely, and a flash of pain so immense that it twisted Harry's gut came across Malfoy's face, and Harry was watching Malfoy crumble before his eyes.

"Will she live?" Malfoy said, his voice hitching.

"They don't know yet," Harry said steadily, tentatively placing his hand on Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy shook it off.

"I don't need your pity, Potter," he snarled. "Who did it? Was it Mulciber."

"I followed your wife to a house. Rookwood was there." Malfoy's eyes darkened, and Harry could see the rage through the pain, and Harry felt like he was intruding, but there was one thing—one question—and it ripped through Harry's mouth before he could prevent it.

"I didn't know green eyes ran through your family." Harry wanted to steal the words from the air as soon as he uttered them so tactlessly, but they hung heavily between him and Malfoy.

Malfoy inhaled shakily. "How did--?"

"The Healers found the disguising charm you put on her," Harry said haltingly. "They—they wanted to know—why did you do it?"

"Why?" Malfoy said through gritted teeth, the rage overtaking the pain as he met Harry's eyes. "_Why?_ You knew why as soon as you saw it, didn't you? You knew as soon as you saw her eyes that you'd _gotten me pregnant_. And after all that trouble I went through to hide her, my wife turns around and it's all for nothing, because here you are, asking me about it."

"Malfoy—how—is—that—possible?" Harry said, stumbling around the words, his mind reeling.

"God, it's always so easy to tell you'd been brought up by Muggles," Malfoy said, indirectly avoiding the question. "I can't talk to you anymore, Potter. You need to leave now." Harry didn't press, because he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that _he had a daughter with Malfoy_ and how it was impossible and how dare Malfoy not tell him, and what was going to happen now? He was so distracted, Robards nearly hexed him when he couldn't sufficiently explain how he'd allowed nine Death Eaters to get away in lieu of rescuing a baby.

Ten days later, Harry found Malfoy at his house. "I'm not going to pretend like she doesn't exist," he said. "And I'm not going to settle for seeing her on the weekends. You bring her and come live with me, or I'll take her without you. I'm sick of living without a family." Malfoy didn't nod or shake his head or react at first; he only opened the door wider, and despite the fact that Harry knew his life was going to get a lot more difficult in the shortest span of time, he couldn't help but acknowledge the tiny curl of hope that had finally unearthed itself.

Author's Notes: Yes, there was mpreg at the end of this, and no, I didn't warn you. I didn't want it to dominate my story and be the determining factor for people to skip my story; has given mpreg an exceptionally bad reputation. So I hope no one's too squicked about it (in my defense, it was barely mentioned). Also, this was my first Harry/Draco (NOT my first fanfic--I've been writing them for eight years), so I hope I didn't do too poorly. Any feedback/constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
